“Fine, but if you and your father don’t pull your heads out of your asses soon I’m gonna get mad and bring him up to you.”
“Please don’t, Mama. I’m really too busy right now.”
And I don’t want to see Beau yet, not until this anger has dissolved enough that I won’t scream obscenities at him.
“Cecelia Blake, you can’t hide from life in those paintings of yours like you did when you were little. It won’t get you anywhere but to a deeper misery,” she says harshly.
I’ve heard all of this before, enough times that I just nod sagely at the phone and roll my eyes, keeping my opinion to myself. Her use of my married name, though, that gets me somewhere deep, in that place I’ve been keeping locked up to this point.
“I’m not hiding from anything, Mama; I’m just goddamned sick and tired of men trying to rule my life. If I let them, I’ll be locked up in the same gilded cage you are, and I can’t accept that,” I whisper raggedly, hurling the paint brush in a fit of temper. “I—”
“Sissy, darlin’, the only cage you can ever be in is the one in your own mind. I’m as free as anybody else, freer if you consider I’ve been leading your daddy around by the short and curlies for the good part of three decades,” she says softly, a tinge of laughter coloring her voice.
“But—”
“No buts. You’ve obviously been looking at life from a vantage point that’s skewed, darlin’, so I’ll help you out here. When Justin was two years old, I left your father and took myself off to a cabin in the woods, fully intending to never lay eyes on the man again till he finally fessed up and admitted he loved me.”
The picture she paints is so far from Beau’s stories of love at first sight and months of wooing that I can’t get a word out before she starts speaking again.
“When he finally did track me down and haul my ass home, it was with such heartfelt professions of love that eventually I had to tell the man to shut up already.” She giggles, making me smile ruefully. “The point is, nothing worthwhile comes easy or without a fight. I had to fight to get the love I wanted. After that, well, I’ve been leading that man around by the nose ever since.”
“But I don’t want to have to fight for love, Mama. I want a man who’ll love me without reason. Someone who’ll give me affection for no other reason than he wants to, not because I’m nagging like a freaking fishwife.”
“Sis, honey pie, men are simple creatures. They don’t think the way we woman do. If you’re looking for some fairy tale hero who’ll profess undying love to you from the get go, you’re in for a lot of disappointment, honey. Vincent is just a man—”
“Vincent doesn’t matter anymore, Mama. My lawyers already served him with the divorce papers, and since I don’t want anything out of it he says all it’ll take to get things moving is both signatures. I’ll be single again in a few weeks,” I remind her, bracing myself for the inevitable.
“He doesn’t want a divorce.”
“Well, too damn bad. I refuse to stay married to a man who doesn’t love me. And if I may just point out, it’s really messed up that you’re commiserating with my soon to be ex.”
“At least he calls, unlike you, and don’t be unfair, Sis. He’s still family.”
Yeah, like that weird third cousin that lives in the hills in a trailer and grows ‘oregano’ out back. You know they’re there, but you just can’t bring yourself to deny the connection, out of loyalty.
“Mama, I gotta go. Love you.”
***
“If you’d sign here, Mrs Blake.”
I’m sitting in the conference room of the lawyer’s office—his lawyer—my lawyer beside me, Vincent and his lawyer across the huge glass expanse. I’d already signed the papers weeks ago and sent them to him, but thanks to him ‘misplacing’ the documents we’ve agreed to meet here and get things done.
Not a good I idea, I realize now as my pen hovers over the papers, my hand frozen and refusing to put ink to paper. When I’d signed before it had been hard, but after two glasses of wine and a tequila shooter I’d managed to get things done.
If I’d cried a little and eaten half a gallon of ice cream, that’s my business and nobody else’s.
“Mrs Blake?”
My lawyer’s voice invades the silent pity party in my head, and I nod once, forcing myself to scrawl my name across the line with a flourish I don’t feel.
You want the truth? Part of me, the really tragic part, had kind of hoped that Vincent would come storming at me with guns blazing, insisting that I stop my shit and come back home where I belong. I’d spent the better part of last night lying in bed, fantasizing about how he’d rip those papers up, haul me over his shoulder, and carry me off.
He hasn’t, though, and I feel my heart die a quick death when he glances at me for a brief moment before quickly scrawling his bold signature and flicking the papers away.
His eyes hold no emotion save for the trace of boredom as he glances at his watch before rising.
“I’ll have your things delivered to your apartment this afternoon.”
“Good bye, Vincent.”
It’s all I have the strength to say as he turns on his heel and walks to the door. He pauses, his hand gripping the knob, and turns to me with a slow smile that sets my heart beating erratically, and then walks away without so much as another word.
Chapter Thirty Four
“You’re standing up for me, right?”
“Of course,” I answer, adding the last touches to my last piece with a feeling of accomplishment that I haven’t felt in ages.
In two months I’ve done what I never thought possible. I’ve completed the work Vern had been hounding me about, and now, with this last painting, I’ve managed to fulfil the promise I made all those months ago.
I’ve finished Vincent’s landscapes. One for every month of the six I’d originally agreed on.
“Sis, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Parker, I heard every word. You want me at your wedding, wearing a suit and a top hat. Have I told you yet how truly stoked I am that you guys are finally getting married?” I ask in an overly cheery voice.
Truth is, I feel like shit as the wedding gets closer. It’s totally bitchy, but I’m green with envy that Parker has managed to get his happily ever after while I’m divorced and considering adopting the stray cat that keeps screeching from the alley beneath my window.
It totally makes sense since I’d started leaning out in the wee hours and am now invested in an ongoing conversation about life and the evils of love.
Sometimes I swear Marty—that’s what I’ve named the flea ball—understands what I’m saying, and once I could have sworn he even answered me.
To be fair, I think he’d been telling me to ‘fuck off and get a life’, but seeing as that’s the only real conversation I’ve had in the two weeks since I’d offloaded my stuff on Vern, I’m just grateful I have someone who understands me.
“I have something to tell you, something that you may not like,” he says after a beat of silence that has my hackles rising.
Parker only ever hesitates to tell me stuff if he knows it’s gonna upset me. Like four days ago when he’d called to tell me that the police had stopped looking for Eric.
I’m super glad I’d decided to keep Henson, the bodyguard I’d hired months ago and like so much I can’t think of firing. We play a cutthroat game of poker every Thursday afternoon when I get back from kickboxing classes.
Keep your mouth shut, I’m really low on friends and Henson only judges me for my addiction to Jerry Springer.
“Spit it out, Parker.”
“Jules, well, she forgot to cut a few guests from the list we made originally, and…Christ, there’s no easy way to say this, Sis. Blake RSVP’d. With a plus one.”
Every ounce of strength I’d fooled myself that I’d found these last two months drains away in that moment, leaving me floundering and breathless and miserably aware of the fact that despite my best effor
ts, I’m still sickeningly in love with my ex-husband.
Asshole.
“That’s fine,” I lie, grasping the paintbrush so hard I feel it snap between my fingers.
Of course it isn’t. I can’t stand the thought of watching him saunter in with whichever tart he’s banging this month. Not when I dream about him—not every night anymore, thank God—but at least twice a week.
It also doesn’t help any that I’ve started second guessing my actions to the point where I’m ashamed to admit that I may have thrown a tantrum and gone overboard with the whole divorce thing.
Right now I’m almost positive that I should have taken Mama’s advice and fought Vincent tooth and nail to admit that he loved me.
Too late now, asshole. He’s definitely moved on.
“Are you sure, Sissy? I could maybe call him and explain—”
Over my dead body would I allow Parker to let on how crushed I still am about the whole divorce—a girl has some pride. Plus, and it’s more than tragic, I really want to see him. It’ll be torture, but God, the painting hanging over my bed is not equal to the flesh and blood man, and I know it.
“Get over yourself, Parker. It’s fine. I’m so over it all,” I assure him, crossing my fingers guiltily.
At this point I suspect it would take a marriage proposal from Ryan Reynolds to get over him, and I’m not completely sure even that breathtaking wet dream would do it.
“If you’re sure?”
Not even a little.
“Totally.”
“Okay then.”
I force myself to endure another five minutes of conversation before Parker takes the hint and lets me go, leaving me alone to stare sightlessly at the landscape I’d been so proud of only minutes ago.
I’d felt optimistic, hopeful even as I’d made plans to wrap them all and have them delivered tomorrow with a note that said…what? How much I miss him? That some foolish part of me was hoping that maybe we could reconnect and—
I cut the thoughts short with a deep scowl that hurts my eyeballs and glare mutinously at the painting, with its bright green leaves and baby pink cherry blossoms.
They mock me as I grit my teeth and physically force away the moisture coating my corneas.
I’m so fucking stupid and pathetic that I’ve spent two weeks building castles in the sky while a man I shouldn’t want anymore hasn’t given me so much as a thought.
Well, that does it! Tonight I’m luring Marty inside. If I’m gonna be this weird, I might as well go all out!
***
“Stop staring at the ceiling! You look drunk.”
I suck in a breath and hiss at Parker, discreetly flipping him the bird from my place beside him at the altar, my legs practically wobbling like a plate of Jell-O as we stand, waiting for Jules to finally make an appearance.
I know it sounds unbelievable, but I’m more nervous than Parker is right now. I’d spotted Vincent out of my peripheral vision twenty minutes ago when he’d strolled in, my eye twitching blearily enough that I’d yet to see his date or fully focus on his face.
My eye’s still twitching, another reason I’d been staring at the ceiling, trying to get the thing to quit, and I really, really don’t want to give in to temptation and allow my treacherously beady eye to roam the place in search of him.
“I wish I was,” I growl back, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of my tailored black suit. I look H. O. T. in the little ensemble Parker had me fitted for, and so surprisingly feminine with my hair super curly and pinned in the front, the length falling down my back. Big gold hoops finish off the look, making me smile smugly, if only to myself, at all this perfection he’s missing out on.
Handsome bastard.
“Your mom’s waving at you,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“I know. She’s been trying to get me over there since they got here. Ignore her and she’ll quit it eventually,” I say out the corner of my mouth, stifling a laugh at his eye roll.
“You’re a bitch.”
“Cursing in church is blasphemy,” I sing in an undertone, and he laughs, finally relaxing the way I’ve been trying to get him to. “Good. You’re looking less like you have a broomstick impaling your balls. Stand up straighter, here comes your bride, asshole.”
Everyone gasps at the vision making her glorious way down the aisle, and I force myself to zone out as memories bombard me, clenching my chest so tightly I struggle to breathe.
It’s only when I hear the minister asking for the rings that I snap out of it and wink at Parker, giving him a glorious smile that freezes my cheeks. The final words are spoken in a choked whisper from Parker that makes me grin evilly.
I decide to order a copy just to tease him every time he calls me a sap for crying when the breath mint commercial comes on. He thinks it’s because I love the baby in it. Little does he know that I cry every time I hear the word ‘mint’.
Pathetic.
***
“You look like a lesbian. A hot one,” I hear from my left, turning to mock growl at Justin and a laughing Bee as they saunter into the reception arm in arm, looking like the latest cover of ‘Couples Who Last’.
She looks so much better—even a little chunkier than she’d been in college—and though we’re nowhere near the friendship we’d shared before, we’ve spoken enough for me to know that she is totally in love with my brother.
“Right back at ya, bro,” I drawl, leaning in to kiss them both on the cheek. “You look great, Bee.”
She blushes and tenses, and immediately alarm bells go off in my head, making me woozy and itchy all at once. Somehow, despite the agony coursing its way through my every cell, I manage to smile at them both with real happiness.
“Congratulations. You’d better get a ring on that finger before she starts showing, or Mama will kick your ass,” I laugh, hugging them both with a dry-eyed determination that feels too forced.
“Sissy…”
“No, really, I’m so happy for the both of you,” I rush to assure. “Everything fine though?”
I can’t help it; I’m terrified of someone else being as happy as I’d been only to have it snatched away so cruelly by a body that just couldn’t get it right.
“Yeah, perfect,” Bee whispers, hugging me again, tighter when I shudder lightly with repressed emotion.
“Good. Now let’s all go get a drink. Oops! Not you, of course,” I trill with a false smile. “Only orange juice or water for mama.”
I spend the next hour laughing too loudly, giving a best man speech that’s a little too raunchy, and just generally trying to keep my eyes off Vincent while ignoring the slow ache beating at my chest.
When I can’t stand another minute of it I start drinking, ignoring Parker’s concerned looks and my parents’ glares. By my fifth shot I feel good enough to dance with one of the groomsman, a blonde hottie from Chicago whose name escapes me.
“We should totally hook up tonight, hot stuff. Jason likes what he sees. Wanna get out of here and go…exploring?”
Not likely, my befuddled brain snarls from somewhere in the distance, making a bubble of laughter burble up. I’d rather explore a powder keg with a lit match, thanks.
“Um—”
“Pardon me, might I cut in?”
Jason looks over my shoulder arrogantly, ready, I think, to shoot down that sneering growl, when his eyes widen and he all but bolts away, leaving me alone and wobbling on my four inch heels in the middle of the crowded dance floor.
A set of strong arms enfolds me, turning me around for my first look at him in two months. Jesus, had I ever really thought I could get over this man?
It’s ridiculous, I see that now, because no matter how much I hate him for his betrayal I love him just as fiercely, and odds are I always will.
“Hello, dove.”
I don’t know how, but I keep myself steady as I lift my eyes and meet his head on, my chin only slightly trembling when I see the soft smile curving his
lips.
“Hello ,Vincent.”
Chapter Thirty Five
“You’re drunk,” he says derisively, pulling me closer to sway to the eerily mournful music.
“Tipsy,” I purr, spreading my fingers over the breadth of his muscled chest.
Everything inside me clenches, turning my wobbly bones to liquid when he brings our hips flush and grinds himself into me.
“Blotto,” he murmurs back, making me gasp when his slow rubbing hits me exactly where I need it. “I like it.”
I do too. With the alcohol streaming though my blood I feel invincible, untouchable, and more importantly, unbreakable.
“You only like what you can’t have,” I mutter, staring at his button hole with one eye to still the jumping circle. “Or, more accurately, you only want the thrill of the challenge. Or is that chase? Whatever.”
To say that I’d lost the leash to my tongue somewhere between the second glass of wine and the tequila is an understatement. Here I am, drunk—yes, I’m blotto—and taunting a breed of very dangerous animal, just to see him react.
“Oh well, no hard feelings,” I mumble airily, rubbing his chest in slow circles. “I should have taken blonde hottie up on his offer. I think it’s most definitely time to stop sulking and move on.”
I’m not even talking to him at this point. Strange fact, when I get drunk I have a disgusting habit of talking to myself and answering as if no one’s there. One time I’d spent half of a New Year’s party holding an enthralling conversation about global warming.
How do I know? Bee’s friend Jack still has the video he’d taken of the whole mess. A hot mess, but a mess nevertheless.
“I really should. I mean, I almost had a breakdown when they told me about the baby. And what for? Just because the thought of a baby smashes my pathetic heart to pieces doesn’t mean nobody else deserves happiness. And you know what else?”
Okay, here’s the part where I get really sloppy drunk and start saying things that I’ll cringe about later.
“What?” he prompts when I fall silent, my mind whirling sickeningly.
I swallow and blink rapidly, refocusing on his quietly amused face.
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